Imagine, if you will, Glenn Close's character from Fatal Attraction.

Now imagine her with fecal impaction.

Now imagine her whining about the aforementioned fecal impaction, asking repeatedly for advice, yet never ever actually USING the advice.

Now imagine her spending nearly 48 hours with a turd the size of a baby's forearm, just, yanno, hanging out of her butt. A recalcitrant turtlehead, refusing to return to its "shell," and so compact she cannot (or I guess WILL NOT) break it off manually, to yanno, GET ON WITH HER DAY.

Now imagine her finally relenting, and go to the hospital to involve some unfortunate innocent soul in this murky melodrama, which could have been prevented or at a minimum, ameliorated.

Now imagine her embarrassment, pain, discomfort and disgust of enduring this.

Now envision me, on the receiving end of what has amounted to a never-ending, narcissistic drain, of being regaled, graphically, about her ass. Whining incessantly about the pain of the major surgery she had which is the genesis of the impaction, whining incessantly about the consistency or paucity of her STOOL, and yet, not taking any of the advice she has asked for, specifically.

Now envision two, nearly three weeks of her intellectualizing herself out of actually, I don't know, USING miralax, benefiber, or colace to prevent this problem...

Therein is the rub. Nearly three weeks of having the same god damned conversation about her ass, like some sort of scatalogical version of Groundhog Day. Over and over and over again.

I'm neither a doctor, nor do I play one on t.v.

I don't know everything, but what I do know is how to prevent this shit (literally!) from happening.

For nearly three weeks I have been manic, and laughing at the absurdity of this Groundhog Day like situation. Over and over and over again, with me, of course in Bill Murray's role.

Well, the downside to manic?

Yeah, you know the downside. I've bottomed out. I feel physically like crap. This has been too much of a drain on me. If it's not the conversations themselves, it's the deep chord of fear that strikes me everytime I hear my phone ring. *GASP!* *CLUTCHES PEARLS!* And I cast my gaze to the caller ID, and let the calls go to voicemail now, with the last, resultant voicemail containing this, verbatim: [HUGE SIGH] ... "this isn't funny. call me," a la Glenn Close's character saying, "I won't be ignored... DAN!"

To that end? I'm going into a downward emotional and physical spiral and need to recharge my batteries.

And this, my dear reader, is why, I can go for years having friends just know me as my alter-ego, because I have been burned so many times before, burned when I share even the most basic of personal information (my name, my phone #).

So forgive me, Father, for I am wishing all manner of befoulment to this woman's ass, to the degree of wishing her anus to get septic with the next, predictable bout of impaction, septic to the point of requiring removing part of her colon, removing enough of her colon to require an ostomy. Why? Because as dense as she is, I dare say even going septic might be too subtle enough of a hint to drive home the point to this dolt that perhaps, JUST PERHAPS, there are worse things in life than to pop two fucking Colace (or mix a Benefiber in a drink) a day, and nothing says "There are worse things in life..." more than an ostomy, the penultimate bag, for which there are no shoes to match.

Here endeth thy rant.

(For now)

Pay It Forward. Pretty much is my reason for life, I suppose.

Ever since having gastric surgery this year, I've been bolstered by the love and support of others who had it before me. They had endless answers and patience (not to mention samples of supplements and protein powders etc) for me.

It's a very giving community, and I've got quite the support system of friends, not to mention health care providers with whom I share a very candid, personal rapport.

So imagine my horror (and annoyance) at a friend who, when they asked me for all the precious details most of the books and doctors neglect to tell us (i.e., "constipation" is code for "fecal impaction," aka your bathroom habits will never ever be the same again), she's opted NOT to take my suggestions.

Fine. Live and let live, right?

No. She not only has chosen NOT to take my suggestions to prevent the disgusting and exceedingly painful medical condition known as fecal impaction, she also has texted me, RELENTLESSLY, about her ass.

And yet? Still not taking my suggestions, which ended her up in the hospital to have someone else root around in there to remove the blockage.

Three weeks out, and she still has yet to take Miralax. Took her two weeks post-op to finally take the Colace, but it was too late. Even going to the hospital to get the plug extracted, she waited 48 extra hours since the first text I received.

I feel like an A.A. sponsor for her ass. ASS ANONYMOUS. But it's not-so-anonymous.

I live by example. I remind her I'm over six months out from my own surgery, and yet, even "I" am still on stool softeners daily (as well as flax seed oil, primrose oil, omega-3 oil, and extra magnesium gel capsules daily). I've clearly stated that I am "scared straight," that the horror, indignity, and pure repugnance of manually disimpacting one's ass has struck such a chord of fear in me, I don't care if I need to be on oil capsules and stool softeners the rest of my life just to prevent this from ever happening again.

Granted everyone progresses at their own rate. I can't compare my journey to the journey of someone else. However! If someone were to tell me that XYZ is painful and disgusting and could potentially GET SEPTIC, I'd do everything in my power to avoid doing that. I would not have to endure the problem. I'd just do whatever was necessary to prevent it. I would NOT ignore advice, and then text someone REPEATEDLY about the problem, involving my intra-colon drama. I'd be an adult, take the advice and the tools provided to me, and just ... well...

SHIT OR GET OFF THE POT.

Father Forgive Me, I have no patience today.

Here endeth thy rant.

Honestly, I don't give a shit anymore.

I've anguished for well over a year about the distance I felt in our friendship. Despite you denying anything going on, it was still there, noticeable, like a 300 lb gorilla, with diarrhea, in church.

You haven't contributed or enriched my life in anyway. You haven't actively cultivated our friendship. And I, simply put, got tired of waiting for you to pick me up like an object to entertain you, on your terms.

I see where I failed: I presumed you put the same value on our friendship as I. I presumed "The Golden Rule" was a philosophy you might have embraced in your life. It is what it is, and well, lesson learned!

I've spent enough time anguishing about this. Thinking it was all me. Thinking surely there's something I can do to fix this. But I can't. And furthermore, you don't want it fixed. You weren't woman enough to tell me to my face to back the fuck off, or even tell me bluntly, to leave you alone, or nicer, "It's not working for me," blah blah blah. Whatever.

So imagine my amusement, that you should be bent out of shape that out of my disappointment of how things are, disappointment of this sense of abandonment I feel, both for myself and the project we started together, that you should be upset that I gave away yarn which was supposed to be used for that project, and that I took apart the other related project I started and stopped at the same point (waiting, forever, for your assistance).

Every time I saw these half finished projects, and the excess yarn, in my stash, it made me sad. Reminded me of how very little you value me, how very little you've given of yourself or your time in over a year. I felt powerless to change things. And yet, I was just left with my anguish.

So yes. I gave away the yarn (some really shitty, splitty yarn in acrylic which I'd never use myself) to someone who could use it for charity projects. And yes, I ripped out my project, so I could use the yarn in another project.

I tried reaching out to you. You weren't interested. Calls and texts no longer returned. You Tweeted around me. So close and yet so far, you live around the corner from some medical offices I go to, and yet... nope, can't be bothered to grab a cup of coffee. Yet, you only break down to call me when YOU need something FROM me, and yet, as a good friend, I helped get you the advice you sought.

Yes, yes, paint me as a bitch who blogged about you, indirectly, not naming names. And rather than perhaps viewing it as an opportunity as an opening for discourse, you showed your true self, fangs and claws, the works. And yet, your co-hort on Twitter? Some hag who told me to "just get over it," when it was 6 weeks after my dad passed.

Yeah. Birds of a feather, flockin' together.

Suddenly, you're unhappy.
Suddenly, you're the one dealing with the reality and unpleasantness (when you could give a shit less when I was dealing with the back end of this reality & unpleasantness).
Suddenly, you're the one whose gone totally effing mental.

I remain "unapologetic."

I'm not mad, or sad, or even upset. Sure, Tweet for 10 hours straight about me, maligning me to countless folks. And yet, all eyes go to the blog post.

Granted... it all is maya, it all is illusion and delusion in this existence; however, I think from now on, I'm going to defer to my own illusions and delusions. Looks like you've got a shitload more issues than I.

Good luck with all that.

Forgive me Father, for I am ticked.

Dear Sister o'Mine:

Yes. I've been slowly distancing myself further and further from the family fold in general since our dad passed. Either it doesn't register with you, or it does, and you just don't care. Either way, I'm okay with it, as for the most part I feel orphaned now since his passing.

Just don't try to monopolize MY time on the rare occasions when I DO make a trip "back home." I haven't been "back home" more than three times since he passed in almost as many years, which, if you're keeping track, is three times more in the last three years than you've ever visited my home.

Newsflash, it's just as far for ME to make that drive to go "back home." No. Magically it isn't shorter if I make it. I can't bend time and geography to my will and shorten both for my own convenience.

Newsflash, as I don't have children of my own (yet, if ever), however, I DO have a life and responsibilities and interests of my own, that do not include or involve "back home."

Newflash, I have a finite amount of free time and stamina to devote to jaunts "back home."

So, yanno what? You've been to see "The Mouse" four times since dad passed three years ago. This involves what? A 3-4 hour plane ride, flying thru/above HOW many states, yet, you cannot get in a car and drive 2.5 hours to visit me in a neighboring state?

Additionally, you can't be bothered to call me to see if I'm available to visit 35 minutes away, when you've made trips to NYC to take your "mini me" to see a Broadway show or to dump countless buck-o-las at American Girl store and cafe?

I call "bullshit" on your alleged agoraphobia. Folks who actually have the disorder cannot pick and chose the depth or degree they are afflicted with this disorder.

I wish I could say, "fuck you" or that it doesn't matter to me, because yanno? It DOES matter. I cannot wait until the day comes when I can say, it used to matter, or doesn't matter anymore.

We are our last links to our father. It's sad that even our brother, who normally is a bit oblivious about things in general, has zoned in and realizes the importance of us remaining in contact, that as long as we still have each other, dad hasn't died completely, that he's still here with us, when we're all together.

Forgive me Father, for I have neglected this blog...

Now for my confession:

Look. I get it. I know your mom is a judgmental person, overly fixated on appearances, especially the weight of your daughter. I get it. Honest. I do.

However, my support of you bristling at the thought and knowledge of your mom projecting potential self-image bullshit on your teen aged daughter runs dry once you open your mouth and complain about how fat your estranged son is getting, as you stalk him anonymously online.

I damn near bit my tongue clear off, as I was about to point out to you that you're doing the very thing you bitch (to me) about your mom.

I'm praying for some self-awareness for you.

Bless your heart,
Sister Mary Rottencrotch

Yanno what? I'm sick and tired of the one-dimensionality of our friendship. There. I said it.

Dad's been gone since October 24, 2008.

I do not want to live in a world without him.

I've intellectualized myself out of acting on this impulse, given our family's mantra, which is kinda like "Murphy's Law" (i.e., if anything bad will happen it will); however, with this subtle difference: If anything bad will happen it will, in the worst possible way.

Thus, any "acting out on this impulse" could very well fail and cause me to be in a shitpile of misery, the likes of which nightmares are composed.

BLAH!!!!